


Canary Wharf

by rosieposie77



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosieposie77/pseuds/rosieposie77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they noticed each other was at the Bank tube station - Sherlock on the westbound platform, John on the eastbound one. It was a rainy afternoon, late March. Sherlock was wearing his perfectly-ironed school uniform: black blazer with a white shirt and a matching striped red-and-black tie. On the contrary, John exhibited a clearly second-hand red blazer, an undone tie and discolored dark trousers, a little short for his size, drenched with rain almost half a leg. John noticed Sherlock when a gust of air, raised by the departing train, messed his black curls up, reminding him of one of those romantic characters he had often read about in his books. Sherlock had noticed John for the comic book clutched tight in his hand as if it was the most important thing of this world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Canary Wharf

CHAPTER 1. The tube

 

The first time they noticed each other was at the Bank tube station - Sherlock on the westbound platform, John on the eastbound one. It was a rainy afternoon, late March. Sherlock was wearing his perfectly-ironed school uniform: black blazer with a white shirt and a matching striped red-and-black tie. On the contrary, John exhibited a clearly second-hand red blazer, an undone tie and discolored dark trousers, a little short for his size, drenched with rain almost half a leg.

 

John noticed Sherlock when a gust of air, raised by the departing train, messed his black curls up, reminding him of one of those romantic characters he had often read about in his books.

Sherlock had noticed John for the comic book clutched tight in his hand as if it was the most important thing of this world.

John was seventeen and Sherlock a few years younger, but that was not easy to determine.

They observed and studied each other every day for a good week, with the inanimate tracks of the tube dividing them. One day it was Sherlock killing time with a comic book and John with a novel; the next day it was the opposite. _Spiderman_ and _Batman_ , or _The Last of the Mohicans_ and _Gulliver's Travels_. Unlike most kids their age, who preferred waiting for the train gathering into groups of friends on this side of the yellow line, both of them favored remaining on their own, finding more and more interesting the company of a good book than that of human contact.

One afternoon, on early April, after he got downstairs to the underground station and turned right towards the stamping machines, Sherlock found himself face to face with John, who had used a side entrance that day. They both stopped, staring at each other for a couple of minutes, as the rush hour traffic passed beside them.

-Hello ... -, Sherlock said, in a deep voice.

-Hi! -, John replied, sounding more cheerful.

Nothing more was added and then both of them proceeded to their own platform. Sherlock turned back a couple of times before seeing the blond boy disappearing down another level of stairs. They met again on the next day. Sherlock found John waiting for him besides the ticket machines.

 

-Hi.

-Hi.

-My name is John.

-I am Sherlock.

-Funny name.

-Indeed-, the boy agreed in an uncomforted way, taking his season ticket out of the document pouch, which was stored into his backpack's outside pocket.

-What happened to your eye? -, John asked, pointing at a slight black bruise above his right eye.  
  
-Got into a fight.

-With whom?

-A schoolmate.

-Why?

-Because I told him his IQ's equal to the one of a sloth.

-Why in the world did you say that?

-'Cos it's true.

John blinked a couple of times in disbelief at the wonderful strangeness of this younger fellow.  
  
-Attending the CLS?

-You're asking too many questions.

-So tells me my sister ...

-Is she boring as my big bro?

-Maybe.

They parted their ways once they reached their own direction, saying no more words. The next day it was John who found Sherlock waiting for him, the blazer thrown carelessly on one arm and his shirt sleeves rolled half way up. It was getting warmer.

-Fancy an ice cream?

-Haven't had my lunch, yet.

-So, fancy a sandwich?

They sat at a white plastic table at the bar in front of the information center. John had a hotdog, because it was the cheapest dish on the menu, whereas Sherlock ordered a chocolate ice cream.

-You like reading Batman-, Sherlock said, while waiting to be served.

-It's Spiderman-, John replied, pointing at the comic book he had placed on the chair beside him.

-But you was reading Batman, last week.

-How d'you know?

-I observe. I constantly observe. Even if people disapprove.

-And that's why you end up with a black eye.

John managed to get a smile out of the younger boy. Then, the waitress arrived with their order and a cheerful "Here you go, boys". They remained silent for a while.

-However, my fav character's Robin...

-Already guessed it.

The next day Sherlock found John waiting for him, again. He was half an hour later than usual.

-You are late.

-Was at the headmistress' office... -, Sherlock said, glancing down.

-I do not see any black eye, this time...

-Ask the other guy.

-A friend of yours?

-I don't have friends.

-Have you had lunch, yet?

-Don't feel like.

-So, why don't we go to the park, instead? And read our books in the shading of the trees?

-Weren't you late?

-Sister's at school and mom works until late on Wednesdays.

-OK so.

John took Sherlock's hand. Usually, he wasn't a guy who walked with friends hand in hand, quite the contrary. But Sherlock was different: it was as if a little voice inside him was telling him to take the younger boy under his wing, to protect him. They walked towards the Ealing Broadway platform, getting onto the first inbound train and stepping off at Marble Arch. They spent the entire afternoon laid down on the grass by the Serpentine, surrounded by baby-sitters, children of all ages and teenage sweethearts. Every now and then, they made comments about what they were respectively reading, but most of the time they laid silently, enjoying quietly the peace of the day and the warm rays of sun caressing the delicate skin of their young faces.

 

Then, with the first warm days, it also came the first sudden changes in temperature and John got an acute pharyngitis that forced him to bed for a whole week, despite his protests. It was the first time in years that he felt annoyed being bedridden. For five days, John constantly moved from the bed to the couch, and from the couch to the bed, closely guarded by Harriet in the afternoon so not to leave house against the doctor's advice.

He felt like a caged bird deprived of his freedom, as he was reading and re-reading Sherlock's _Superman_ comics he had swapped for two of his own _Batmans_.

The next weekend, temperature returned to normal levels. As a special treat (at least in his mother's opinion), John was able to go out for a walk in the park before Sunday lunch at Grandma's place. But, unfortunately, the Serpentine had suddenly lost all its charm, without his new friend on his side.

On Monday, John left house earlier than usual, moved by the excitement of meeting with Sherlock after school, at Bank. But all his enthusiasms were quickly subdued when he didn't find Sherlock waiting for him at the ticket machines. No sign of Sherlock either the next day or the day after that. On Thursday, John did his best to convince his mother to sign an early exit permission slip, telling her he had promise his friend Morgan from Greater London, who was at home sick, to help him with the algebra assignments. Unfortunately, he sadly and vainly waited for Sherlock for two hours at their table at the tube bar.

 

During the following days, John did his best to convinced himself that there must have been an absolutely positive and rational explanation for the disappearance of his new friend. Perhaps his curriculum has been slightly changed in the last school term. Maybe Sherlock was ill, too. Or, in spite how cruel it could be, Sherlock had simply decided it was too boring and useless to maintain a friendship with an older and introverted boy met by chance at a tube station.

His heart was filled with sadness, just as a few years before, when he received a handmade sweater for Christmas instead of a box of tin soldiers that he dreamt of so much.

 

The following Monday, he decided to take the tube at St Paul's, rather than Bank. If he got on the train at a different stop, he would have not been disappointed if he had not met Sherlock.

He did the same on Tuesday. Then, on Wednesday, as he was late for the dentist after having lingered talking to his literature professor, he decided to go for the Bank stop.  
  
As he walked down the steps to the station, John was overwhelmed by the flood of students heading home. He hung back trying to find his season ticket, lost among all the stuff that made his backpack heavier.

  
-Hi...

Sherlock's deep voice reached him distinctly among all the voices and the music played from the speakers. He glazed up – the just-found ticket tight between his teeth, his hands on the backpack's zipper – and his eyes met those of his friend.

-How are you doing?

John suddenly forgot all his haste. He buckled his backpack up and took his ticket off his mouth, very slowly.

-Fine. Better. Was sick.

-I know.

John looked at his friend, puzzled.

-Your eyes speak to me-, he explained.

-Were you sick, too?

Sherlock shook his head a couple of times.

-No. My father had to go abroad for work. He wanted all family to follow him.

They remained there, looking at each other without saying another word, then John's mind suddenly jumped to his appointment.

-Really gotta go, now. The dentist-, he said, pointing to the escalators that led to his train.

-All right.

But John did not move.

-Still have your comics at my place-, he added. He did not really feel like wanting to leave.

-You can give them back to me, tomorrow.

-So... see you tomorrow, then.

-See you.

The next day, it was raining cats and dogs. Despite carrying his umbrella, Sherlock was soaking wet when he arrived at Bank. John had been waiting for a good quarter of an hour when he saw him coming down the stairs. He couldn't help but smile, thinking how much he reminded him of a ruffled, alley kitten. He gently brushed aside the dark and wet tuft of hair from his eyes, with a tenderness that made the normally pale Sherlock's cheeks blushed.

-You're dripping wet from head to toe... -, John said, his hand still lingering on his black curls.

-No park today, I guess.

-Come to my place. You'll love our fireplace.

During the underground ride, nobody talked. John was too busy reading his comics, Sherlock studying people around them. He was visibly embarrassed. He did not feel totally at ease causing his friend all that trouble. He was even afraid of meeting his sister, or worse, his mother, but he wanted to spend time with him at his place more than anything else in the world.

Once they arrived at destination, Sherlock found neither Mrs Watson nor Harriet  waiting for them. The Watson family's flat was very small in comparison to his large Victorian mansion. He was delightfully intrigued. John lit the fire, then asked Sherlock to follow him to the bathroom. He leaned down to open the cabinet's doors under the sink, pulling a couple of blue towels out. He put the smallest one on his friend's head, placing the other one on the edge of the tub. He stroke Sherlock’s hair, pulling them slightly, but exercising at any time all the gentleness and sweetness he was capable of.

Sherlock's beautiful curls were now straight, covering part of one of his eyes. Then, John helped him taking his clothes off, with quick and firm movements, while Sherlock was studying all his actions very carefully. None of them spoke. After that, John disappeared for a moment in his room. He went back to the bathroom a few minutes later, carrying a pair of trousers and a shirt. He laid them down on the tub's edge. While John was in the other room, Sherlock had stood still, his hands resting curiously on the smaller towel, which still covered his unruly hair.

-These might not be perfectly fitting, but at least you'll have something warm to put on while your clothes are getting dry.

John took Sherlock's wet clothes and disappeared into the living room, where he placed them on a chair in front of the fireplace. Sherlock joined him shortly after, wearing John's clothes, his hair still a little wet.

-Don't laugh.

-Don't have a mind to.

-Don't laugh anyway.

-All right.

They both sat in front of the fireplace, and for a while none of them said a word.

-I’ll get you a sandwich. There’s nothing else in the fridge.

-Don't wanna bother you any further.

\- No bother, I have to eat, too. And, then, taking care of you is a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it.

That said, John got up and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock blank-staring at the fire, clasping his knees firmly around his chest. They both had a turkey-and-salad sandwich, eating silently in front of the fire.

-What are you planning to do, once school's over?-, that was the first thing Sherlock asked, as soon as they finished eating.

-Wanna be a doctor.

The younger boy nodded vigorously, expressing his approval.

-And, how 'bout you?

Sherlock shrugged.

-Don't know exactly... Teachers say I am smart enough to do whatever I want. Musician, scientist or physicist.

They were speaking without looking into each other’s eyes.

-But, what do you like to do? What's your favorite job?

-Want to be a pirate or a policeman-, Sherlock spoke firmly, his eyes shone.

-Little chance to be a pirate...

-Yeah. It seems that, after all, there's only one option left to me... -, he said, looking a bit down-hearted.

-I get you a cup of tea-, then said John, completely changing the subject.

-Don't worry. I'm fine, really.

-No, you're not.

John touched his friend's hands gently, still resting on his knees. Sherlock shivered, and, for the first time since they sat there, he turned to John, staring his eyes pale as ice into John's darker ones. They looked at each other for a while.

-You're still chill... -, John explained, before getting up and going to the kitchen.

They spent the rest of the afternoon doing homeworks, sitting at the dining room table and sometimes asking for mutual advice. Then, in the twinkling of an eye, it was six in the evening, and the sky, already burdened by heavy rain clouds, turned even darker.

-Gotta go home, now. It's almost suppertime...

Sherlock's clothes were dry, by then. The younger boy locked himself in the bathroom to get dressed, while John was busy putting his books away in his schoolpack, with the same care of a loving mother. Sherlock appeared out of the bathroom shortly after, and noticed that John was bustling with his stuff.

-Really, you don't have to.

-I love to optimising time!

Sherlock smiled at that line, and John smiled too.

-Besides, I've already told you: someone's got to take care of you.

-Sometimes my brother Mycroft takes care of me, but not very often-, he said, getting close to the chair and putting his blazer on. -He's much older than me.

Sherlock's voice sounded like an excuse to his big brother's behavior.

 

-Yeah... He considers you a real pain in the ass... -, John agreed. -My sister does that, too, sometimes.

 

Sherlock put both straps of his schoolbag on his right shoulder, nodding.

-I'm not exactly sure which line you need to take to get home. But I think I have a tube's map, somewhere...

-Never mind. I virtually know all underground routes by heart. Ground transportation included.

John thought his friend was really an odd fellow at times, but he did not mind at all. Far from it.

-Then you should not get lost! Get home in one piece!

-I hope so, too...

They started out to the front door.

-Let me know when you get home.

-How?

-Call me.

John got back to the table and took one of his pens. Then, he began to look around, searching with his eyes for a blank piece of paper to write his phone number on.

-Here. Write it here.

Sherlock showed him his left hand's palm.

-You serious?

-So I should be sure enough not to lose it.

He smiled.

Holding the black pen in his left hand, John took Sherlock's hand in his right one, this time finding it pleasantly warm. He got a little shock that made his heart jump for a moment. Probably Sherlock felt the same, but, if that was the case, he did not show it. John wrote the numbers carefully, keeping Sherlock's hand wide open with his thumb and being very careful not to hurt him. He pressed the pen's point just a little, to let the ink down. John's eyes jumped constantly from the hand to his friend's ones. Sherlock, instead, kept all the time his unreadable gaze stuck to John's face.

-Done. If you hold your hand in your pocket and do not let it get soaked wet again, it won't go away.

John kept Sherlock's one in his hands for a while, before letting it go. Perhaps to check that numbers were readable enough. Or, maybe, because the feeling of his skin next to Sherlock's was strangely pleasant. As soon as he did, Sherlock closed his palm tightly and put his right hand straight into his pocket.

-Yes, Sir!

They both laughed. Then, John got into his blazer, took his umbrella and walked his friend to the nearest underground stop.

 

 


End file.
